


Wondrous Tails 2020

by Iristedeu



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aged Up Leveilleurs, Bard Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Domestic, Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Established Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), No Incest, One Shot Collection, Polyamory, for one prompt only and it's noted accordingly, some anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iristedeu/pseuds/Iristedeu
Summary: Prompts crossposted from the spring 2020 Wondrous Tails of FFXIV event on Tumblr. Rated teen for one prompt only, but on the whole a lot of domestic fluff.Tags will get updated as I remember them. There will be notes before each chapter to specify when, if there's spoilers, warnings, pairings, etc.
Relationships: Alisaie Leveilleur/Warrior of Light, Alphinaud Leveilleur/Warrior of Light
Comments: 35
Kudos: 29





	1. Prompt #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post ShB probably but could be anywhere. No plot spoilers.
> 
> Notes: I wrote too much crap before ‘Academician’ was finalized for English. For now I’m just going to take calling Alphi a Scholar to my grave cause it’s faster.
> 
> (First prompt and I just couldn’t resist…)

“Sorry I’m not any good at healing magic,” Alvaar murmured, a long ear flicking as a soft note of discomfort left the Scholar under him. “That would make this a whole lot more pleasant for you.”

“It’s fine,” Alphinaud whispered back tightly, sucking in a quick breath and gritting his teeth against the pain. “I’m fine. Just keep going, it gets better.”

“It does, but it would be a lot easier on you if you would let me get the oil out of my room you know. Their aren’t awards for being pointlessly stubborn in the pursuit of gratification,” the Bard chided offhandedly, frowning as the slim Elezen shook his head even as he winced and gripped against the sheets.

“Afraid I don’t have the luxury of time, there’s a meeting I need to get to after this. I’ll be fine Alvaar, I asked you remember?” Alphinaud reminded him, managing a weak smile in some attempt to reassure him.

It just made the Bard scowl at him. “You’re still under the impression you’re going anywhere after this? Honestly… I’ll cancel for you, stubborn brat.”

The annoyed huff that escaped the Scholar’s lips was nothing new at the offhanded insult. He never did take well to anything that implied he was acting childish, especially the rare moments he was. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. It’s taken me weeks to get this meeting arranged with the delegates of Sharlayan I’m not about to cancel last minute or show up smelling like-“ he broke off with a hiss of pain, making the Bard still as Alphinaud tensed under him on reflex.

“Don’t tense up, you’ll make it worse. Breathe out with me okay? I’m going to try and get this over quick,” Alvaar reminded, voice low and gentler in sympathy than it was a moment ago. “One… two…”

A strangled and reedy cry of pain sounded in the small room before finally rasping into a weak relieved sigh. “Twelve be praised… you’re really good at that…” Alphinaud breathed, relaxing further into the sheets as Alvaar continued massaging at his back firmly.

“Mmm… growing pains are a bitch. Put your white magic into here,” Alvaar answered, pressing his fingers firmer into the steadily releasing knot of muscles he’d been working at and unphased at the glow and feel of magic dancing against his skin. Cool and gentle as always. “Stubborn. Sure you don’t want to take anything with you for it?” Alvaar asked pointedly.

“Just you,” the Scholar sighed before jerking faintly at the Bard’s questioning noise. “Ah, I thought you were asking if you needed to bring anything for the trip later. And you don’t!” he answered, trying not to fluster and only making the man still perched on his back raise a brow.

Feeling lean muscle shift under his fingers, the Bard dug them in further in careful warning. “Don’t tense.”

“Ow… right, right of course. Sorry.”

“…. and really? No dueling swords? Maybe my favorite war bow? Because I’m just _smitten_ with the idea of another duel with those delegates,” Alvaar remarked drily.

“Don’t you dare…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Massage


	2. Domesticity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post StormBlood. No plot spoilers.

“I have to admit, even having seen it several times before, this is still difficult to come to grips with,” Alisaie remarked, arms crossed in front of her chest and scrutinizing the Warrior of Light.

Then again, it wasn’t every day that one expected to see a lauded hero of the realm done up like a housewife during spring cleaning and cooking breakfast just before daybreak. White apron and all.

A soft snort left the Bard, tossing her a look over his shoulder. “It can’t all be about heroic adventures and high stakes gambits of life or death. It would make them remarkably boring without the quiet days to spice it up.”

“Mmm. Nice bandana,” she remarked, finding a seat at the table and motioning flippantly at the red and black scarf tying his hair back from his face.

“Thanks. I saved the world for it,” he replied, giving the skillet a few shakes before flipping the large flapjack with a flick of his wrist.

Squinting at him again, a low considering noise left her throat. “I can never tell if you’re joking or not when you say that. Given how busy you are it should hardly surprise me.”

“Well if you believe that then the fact I’m part of a band of Sky Pirates will seem rather normal,” he chimed in, neatly plating a reasonably sized breakfast before setting it down in front of her.

“Ah-ah, no protesting,” he cut in before she could speak. “Breakfast is the most important meal and you can digest on the trip out towards the lake before you practice. But get your own beverage, the lot of you are too picky but the water in the tea pot is fresh and steeping temperature.”

Huffing at him she finally sighed and rose to her feet to retrieve two mugs from the cupboards. “Very well. What will you be having?”

“Me? No I’m fine, there’s still a lot to-“

“Alvaar,” she cut in, fixing him with a pointed stare. “It’s the most important meal of the day.”

“.... Coffee then you prat. Two sugars.”

* * *

“I’m surprised you still wake up early every day to cook. You know we have hired help for that?” she remarks lightly, unsurprised after almost two weeks to find breakfast waiting for her as she passed through for morning practice.

“I do. I make them breakfast too. We’ve even swapped recipes. I’m more surprised you make it sound so unfavorable. Don’t care to see your heroes in their casual clothes?” he returned cheekily. “Tea today. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Biting her tongue to still a reflexive sassy remark, she instead focused on making their tea, studying the steam rolling off the surface for a moment before glancing at him. “Perhaps it is more that I am concerned the very stubborn Warrior of Light isn’t taking his time to rest when it’s available. That last campaign was a tough one Alvaar, even for you. It’s okay to let others handle things, you know?”

He makes a small noise in thought, and the tone of it says enough that she sighs internally and focuses on their routine instead. It doesn’t take long for them to be seated with food and drink in the quiet pre dawn morning.

“I like the sound.”

She pauses in the middle of reaching for her mug, glancing up at him as he stares out the window, watching the first rays of dawn begin to color the sky. “The sound?” She echoes, knowing from previous experience it was sometimes the only way to learn anything more about the mysterious Bard. Capitalizing on and encouraging those moments of lost thought and memory had led to a few surprising developments.

“I hate the noise of mess kits. The scrape of cheap thin metal... the taste of it on hastily made food... but there’s something about ceramic, or wood, or even porcelain. There’s a warmer note to it. The cooking utensils are sturdier and they’re always in the same place you put them when you return... there’s a constancy. The sound of ceramic dining ware is a sound that says people are home. I enjoy that, Alisaie. That sort of consistency. The feeling of cooking for the same people each day. Hearing sounds of others being home... that’s what makes it worth doing the adventures and heroics. Preserving that peace so others can take it for granted.” Tilting his jaw, he met her gaze with a quiet knowing look before offering a faint but fond smile. “But I think you may know something of that already... but even so. I’ll be sure to rest, so please continue to enjoy my cooking for as long as you like.”

It was perhaps the first time Alisaie really thought the look of a quiet domestic life suited him more than armor and bow.

And if she found some of her favorite cookies tucked away with a fresh canteen of water in the pack she took for her morning training, it was really just a bonus.


	3. Cooking Together/Teaching Eachother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post-Stormblood. Spoilers for 4.4
> 
> Notes: Platonic nonsense. Because hell yea friendship. That whole period after everything starts to go down and Tataru asks you to come back and visit Alisaie straight punched me in the feels.
> 
> Alvaar is what I call ‘aether inept’ for lack of a better term. He’s horribly inefficient at trying to cast spells to the point he was written off pretty hard as being a lost cause at it when he was young. I believe every class utilizes aether to some extent for their skills, so it isn’t as if he lacks it or the capacity, but how casters focus their aether just doesn’t work well for him and gets him slapped with the label.  
> He’s much better suited to physical classes and knows a handful of tricks, but he’s a Bard main through and through.

“Your presentation may need some work, but I have to say you have excellent cutting technique. I’m ready for the onions and garlic if you would please?”

“I forgot we were baking for the Empress and not throwing a bunch of random roots into a pot,” Alisaie shot back even as she held the cutting board to him so he could sweep the cubes into the soup pot.

“Say what you will but I never get anything that consistent and I’m frequently told I’m “very good” with sharp implements,” he replied carefully. “So pop quiz, why do we pan sear the meat?”

“Looks and flavor?” she answered, giving him a curious look.

“Good. It also adds some depth to the textures. Once we finish softening these vegetables up, we’ll toss in most of it save the carrots and popotos, then set it to braise for… oh, two hours?”

“This seems terribly involved… And you’re certain this is really a useful recipe? I can’t imagine I’ll find several hours to spare for a meal…” she asked skeptically.

“All good things take time. Besides, you can’t expect to make all your meals off trail food or over a campfire. It’s good to make something involved with your own hands once in a while. How else are you going to impress your significant other with recipes from around the globe if you don’t start with the basics?” Alvaar teased lightly, flashing a bright grin at the Red Mage. “I’ve gotten at least three proposals off this dish. It’s surefire.”

Blinking at him she scoffed and looked away with a low grumble, taking the bag of popotos off to wash so the Bard wouldn’t see the steadily staining color of her cheeks.

“Cut those in half when you’re done,” Alvaar continued cheerfully before pausing to regard her a moment.

It hadn’t been all that long ago that Urianger and Y’shtola had fallen to whatever call had been steadily cutting down their numbers. And as the days continued to pass without word from Alphinaud…

Sighing to himself he stirred the pot again before cutting off the heat on the gas stove. Given recent events and the understandably somber mood of Alisaie the last month, it was nice to have a bit of a distraction he mused. And while she may not overly appreciate his quips now, being a bit miffed at him was still better than whiling away the time anxiously waiting for news.

Besides… it was also doing him a world of good as well. Cooking was always more interesting with help and if she happened to learn something along the way and be able to forget her troubles for a few minutes then he’d certainly done his job.

Casting a glance over at her as she diligently scrubbed away, he breathed a deep and steadying sigh before steeling himself for the next part of this plan. While Alvaar didn’t fancy himself as being particularly sensitive, he still didn’t care for the notion of openly making a fool of himself in front of people who looked up to and relied on him. But, as far as he had reasoned, being a fool would be a small price to pay if it might cheer up his friend in these dour times. And it never hurt to learn a little bit more about different fighting techniques, right?

Once she’d returned with the cubed roots, he gestured for it to be put on the table and tested the oven temperature before setting the pot in whole and flashing a grin at her confused expression. “It’s fine. Part of the process and less dishes.”

“Hm. So do we reconvene in two hours then?” she asked, raising a brow but not overly interested.

“We could, but if you’re up for it I think fair is fair,” he returned, voice lilting with mischief and making her blink.

“Oh? And what precisely are you getting at then Alvaar?”

“You’ve been willing to learn from me, so I think it’s fair that I learn something from you. Seems only right that I let you see the Warrior of Light fumbling about like a novice after enduring my nonsense. I’ll make an absolutely piss-poor Red Mage given I’m aether inept, but hey, it could be fun and if nothing else it will kill some time.”

Her expression shifted to one of baffled surprise. “I was under the impression you had no training in black or white magic. But you wish to learn a fighting style that relies on knowledge and understanding of both?”

“Mmm, not particularly. Like I said, I’m aether inept, I’ve no talent at all for casting white magic at the least, maybe a bit of black at the best. But being inept doesn’t mean I can’t try to learn anyway, and besides. I didn’t say I wouldn’t cheat,” he returned with a shrug before holding his hands out and summoning in the basic mythrite rapier with the same ease as he called his tools and instruments. Patting the rapier that was wrapped loosely in sturdy cloth he set it on the table carefully before procuring a carefully crafted leather glove from the mix. Pulling it on he turned it to flash the job stone embedded safely into the leather on the back of his hand where it rested warm against his skin.

“I may be a terrible mage, but I’m told I have quite the knack for these. It won’t remotely make me anything approaching good, but if nothing else it may prove enlightening. Besides, I’ve an interest to learn fencing and if you’re willing to teach it, that suits me fine. It will let me lay a proper beat down on the next noble that thinks challenging me to a duel of close combat over ranged is a good idea. So, what do you say? Ready for a laugh or would you rather pass and I irritate you with archery practice instead?”

Staring at him silently, the Red Mage scrutinized him for a long moment before crossing her arms over her chest and drawing herself up to her full (still noticeably short) stature. “You will address me as “Master Leveilleur” while under my instruction, is that clear?”

Blinking at her in surprise he chuckled and bowed formally. “Yes, Master Leveilleur. I am in your expert care.”


	4. Patching Up Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post-Stormblood. Major spoilers for 4.4
> 
> (Unnecessary) Notes: It was somewhere around in here when I was playing that something awful happened to me and Alvaar both. After absolutely adoring Alphinaud for the bulk of the game (and being you know… worried about how hard Squenix was going to misstep on fleshing out Alisaie’s character like they’d pretty much done for almost every female up to then,) Alisaie kicked the door in like, ‘YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD HAVE FEELINGS TO YOURSELF?’  
> It made later events and the shitty ‘not even a major decision but I stood there contemplating it for literally 5 minutes, you know, THAT questline split…’ in Shadowbringers give me a terrible gut punch. The rest as they say, is history.
> 
> …. I picked Alisaie first btw. I’m still not over this betrayal.

Alvaar’s fingers are light and gentle as they thread through her hair, patient and unhurried as her head rests on a throw pillow in his lap. In a way she can almost tell his thoughts on whatever he’s reading based on the pauses and movements. The stillness of a long thought or light tousle when something amused him. Only the rustle of a turned page interrupting the ticking of the chronometer on the wall before the warm weight of his hand settles back against her hair.

On some level Alisaie’s appalled with herself, being this close and indulging in something so… childish and weak, with the Warrior of Light of all people!

But as much as she wished to be out there doing something, anything, that might reveal her brother’s whereabouts or find a solution to whatever had laid their friends low…

The truth was there was little else she could do but wait. Wait and feel her stomach twist in anxious knots as she grit her teeth and tried not to think of how terribly this could go. That there might not be an answer or that her brother might never return or…

A thoughtful noise leaves Alvaar’s throat before he ruffles her hair with a bit more force, calloused fingers massaging at her scalp carefully. An unspoken reminder she’d learned to read in the last month.

‘Relax. I’m with you. As soon as we have any form of word or direction, we’ll both be out the door.’

The Bard had a patient calm that was infectious, and if he hadn’t been around so much, she was almost certain she would have done something foolish before anyone could have stopped her. More than once in the passing weeks she’d felt his hand on her shoulder quietly urging her to tolerance when she’d almost snapped at messengers or their fellow junior Scions.

Her impatience was why she had never fancied herself a leader. The art of long-winded exposition and careful political maneuvering had solely been the talents of her twin, but with their key members missing or unconscious it had fallen to her instead. Alvaar had enough on his plate managing Primals, an increasingly more ludicrous sounding venture in Doma, and an equally fantastical excursion with the Garlond Ironworks tracking down Omega. He hefted enough weight on their behalf so the least she could do was act as a Scion proper and field what she could from the Rising Stones.

In a way it had almost made her bitter and angry to see him around all the time. Alvaar had seldom been away from the Rising Stones since Urianger and Y’shtola had collapsed, something she had a hunch lay with Tataru’s hushed words to him in the following days as they waited for news. And though the thought of him staying around out of some sense of obliged pity infuriated her, deep down she knew better. The Bard was there because he wanted to be, and as the days had passed by with them in increasingly close space, she had discovered something else.

She wasn’t the only one worried and needing a distraction. Under the stoic calm there was an equal amount of worry and fear.

And an overwhelming amount of anger.

She’d heard a little about it from Alphinaud, the murderous and single-minded rage Alvaar had shown against Ilberd when they had journeyed to rescue Raubahn in Halatali. When he’d brushed with death and dragged himself after their retreating adversaries half bleeding out and choking on poison gas until he’d finally collapsed.

The Burn was the first place she had seen any semblance of it for herself, following the trail of slaughtered monsters and blood once the sandstorm had cleared to find Alvaar huffing in air like a winded beast, the blade point of the Halonic bow embedded in a dragon’s skull, and eyes half wild when she’d healed him. They’d never spoke of it though the silent shame on his expression after had said enough.

But that moment of seeing the cracks in the armor had said she wasn’t alone in her grief and feelings of helplessness. That the hand that gripped hers in those tense moments of silence was offering comfort but also seeking it at the same time, whether the Bard knew it or not.

So… she indulged in his time because he let her. Took a moment of respite with her head resting on a pillow in the Bards lap.

It had been an accident at first of course. She’d only meant to perhaps use him as a bit of a shoulder rest as he’d been reading in the study of the Rising Stones. It was something she had done often with her twin growing up, studying side by side until one or both of them fell asleep. And while a part of her was worried it would be like trying to replace Alphinaud, like admitting in some way he wouldn’t come back, the other and louder part of her had wanted the familiar reassurance now more than ever. But waking up with her cheek pressed against his thigh and his Twin Adder jacket draped over her shoulders had not been anywhere in that plan.

She probably would have startled herself upright if not for how slowly and comfortably she’d woken up, safe and warm and thoughts oddly clear of her recent worries. A glance at the black Choral Chapeau that rested on the coffee table where dark booted feet were propped up had confirmed Alvaar’s presence even if she’d doubted her instincts. Nowhere else in Sharlayan or Eorzea had she encountered another person with that same palpable aura, a quiet and calm feeling of certainty and strength. The brush of fingers over her hair intimate and distantly familiar…

Her family had never been one prone to frequent contact. There had always been a weight of dignified properness and personal distance, something expected from a highly esteemed house of scholars. The sole exception had been her Grandfather, who had often ruffled their hair or scooped them up in his arms as they’d listen to his stories or he indulged in answering a million excited questions.

But touch came with an easy deliberateness to Alvaar, sensitive and observant as he was if still cautious of boundaries. Ruffling her hair and telling her she’d done well after distracting the Red Kojin or pulling her against his side comfortingly when she’d lamented being unable to protect others from Lakshmi as he could. Or how he’d carried her off before she broke down in grief after watching Y’shtola and Urianger lay still and unresponsive in the medical beds for an hour after they’d fallen in the Rising Stones. Spirited her off into his loaned room where she could break down and no one else would see, face buried into his jacket and the Bard holding her patiently and stroking her hair and back comfortingly even long after she’d fallen silent.

She hates feeling weak around him. Hates the idea he feels obliged to stay at her side when all the world begs his attention. That he pesters her to learn to cook properly or fumbles his way through red magic at her instruction to keep her distracted from grief. How much she’s grown to rely on his presence as the days pass.

But for as observant as he is, so is she. There’s a tightness in his expression that eases in those moments they share; the way he laughs as she grumbles over learning baking or honest surprise when he finally manages to land a spell. The tension like a coiled spring that finally releases in moments like now, stroking her hair patiently and relaxing until he almost falls asleep himself.

They’re patching each other’s wounds in these moments, mending cuts and bruises and breaks that are deeper than any white magic or tonic could hope to touch. Readying themselves for the next battle that lingers on the horizon. And she prays more than anything that she can hold fast at his side until they are victorious and things return to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was above and away the prompt that gave me the most trouble, and now it's probably my second favorite of the 11 prompts. Go figure.


	5. Holiday Celebrations/Holiday Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Irrelevant. No Spoilers.
> 
> Notes: No pairings, all friendships, 2 Prompts for the Price of 1. Just because it was easy.

Alvaar didn’t have grand traditions of his own for Starlight. Having grown up an orphan and poor before being taken in by Rosa, where he continued to grow up educated if still fairly poor, his celebrations were minimal and simple.

What memories still lingered, however faceless and hazy they might be, had at least instilled a habit for present exchanges. And while he couldn’t recall the name or face of his teacher, a kind elderly Elezen who had taught him much of what he knew and fostered his curiosity, he could distinctly remember having received his travel harp from the man on Starlight. The very instrument that still rested worn but easy in his hands over ten years later.

He could also recall the small trinkets and treats he would trade with Rosa on Starlight Eve. Somehow the White Mage had always managed to find him something he’d been eyeing, such as a new tool or book. Likewise, he would find a way to patch or repair or trade for something she had needed but been too stubborn to get.

It had never been very much, but the gesture had always sat warm in his heart anyway. Something richer than coin after his bitter youth.

He still had the habit of trying to make a small gift for everyone himself, a gesture that was born of practicality from the days he had almost nothing to his name and the only thing he _could_ do for gifts were to make them from whatever he could get his hands on.

It was something that had become almost impossible as the list of people he wanted to get something for grew longer and longer. The act of _buying_ presents for the holiday had been something alien to him when Tataru had brought it up. Apparently when one had a list that included every key player in the Eorzean Alliance plus a few dozen more, it was now completely practical to make use of wealth over effort.

Needless to say, he’d ended up being dragged into the markets by the resolute Lalafell, who had advised and haggled on his behalf.

And though it still felt a bit strange to purchase gifts for the holiday, the Bard had welcomed a new tradition nonetheless. A day of shrewd shopping and an extravagant lunch with his fellow crafter and Scion was considerably less time consuming and more fun than a month of scrambling to fill out the ever-growing list. It also meant he could focus his time making something personal for the people that he was especially close to. A boon, he figured, because even just getting the materials for the handful of people he parsed his list down to still had him running all over the continent.

As the years had clicked by, his traditions had grown a bit too. Alisaie and occasionally Lyse and Y’shtola would accompany them when they went Starlight shopping. The Rising Stones now accommodated a small party each year, one he always managed to help cook for no matter how many Primals he’d just put down or errands he’d been cajoled into. A second party would also be thrown in his Free Company, which thankfully meant he could drink and pass out in his own bed guilt free at the end of the night.

It was a far cry from his first humble Starlight, eating tarts in front of the fireplace with Rosa while she talked with his teacher who reminisced on the old days. Much more raucous and louder and stressful if he was honest.

But listening to Hoary Boulder regale his small crowd of listeners with a recent adventure… the familiar snark and banter thrown about the basement of his Free Company… and managing for the third year in a row to track down that rare item Tataru had been wanting or managing to outdo himself on last years present…

It was different, but it was a new tradition he was equally as fond of. A measure of how far he had grown from that wayward angry orphan into someone that had earned a place among these many talented people who called him a friend.

And that was plenty gift enough for him every year.

* * *

He cracks open an eye the next day and is greeted with blinding light from the window, and the steady painful throb of a hangover in answer.

Ah… perfect. Too much wine, too hard on the celebrations, and from the second and more cautious glance it was definitely his room in the Goblet. All according to plan then. The fact his chocobo wasn’t waking him up with repeated rapt pecks at his window also suggested they’d already been fed. Good. It was far too warm in his bed to want to leave it.

Nuzzling deeper into the blankets and pillow, he paused and groggily noticed it wasn’t his usual bedspread. Still his room, a third and partly panicked inspection confirmed, but he’d never had a blanket this soft and warm before. Well… not on his _own_ bed at least… And it was his bed a fourth look, no less painful than the last ones, reassured.

Pressing his nose into the plush thick pile of the inside of the blanket, he mulled it over slowly. He’d almost drifted off again before he remembered Alisaie had given him something like it last night. A deep forest green throw blanket with a sleek and soft suede shell over the white cream colored shearling interior. Her teasing comment as he’d looked it over had been that it would be something he could pet and fuss with instead of the fur ruff of her jacket. It had at least distracted him from how terribly expensive it must have been given the craftsmanship and distinctively soft and high loft of wool known to the sheep of the Azim Steppe.

The brat…

He was almost content to nuzzle back down into the sheets and pass back out. And he very well would have if his mouth didn’t have the lingering acrid taste alcohol and feel like he’d slept with cotton in his mouth.

Steeling himself for another throb of pain as he opened his eyes, he peered at the canteen and probably sarcastic note stuck to it on his bedside table. No doubt Taelis’ penmanship, as for three years running the dour Elezen Black Mage has been the one to dump him into his room from wherever he’d passed out in the house. Alvaar had long gotten over his days of being a drunk floozy, but Starlight traditions were still traditions. It was the one day of the year he gave himself express permission to spend the next day remember why he’d stopped drinking so much. He knew from experience Taelis had left him water and painkillers, because for as standoffish and as much of a bastard as his retainer and guildmate could be, he still cared. …Probably.

Pushing himself upright slowly and letting his headache ease, he pulled the canteen and bottle of pills into his lap, squinting at the bottle to confirm before tossing back two and then studying the modestly sized canteen, made with a durable lightweight and rustproof metal and bound in a dark tooled leather cover of scrollwork. A sturdy leather strap and chain were fixed into a ring fused to the neck and base of the bottle, solidly constructed so it wouldn’t come free from his belts or get in his way no matter how frantic battle might get.

Yet another gift, this time from Alphinaud, to replace his last one that had taken a bullet in one of his recent skirmishes. Also not especially cheap given the quality, a firm stamp from the Garlond Ironworks on the bottles screw top and Fen-Yll on the pouches strap. Custom work, and he could probably guess who’s hands it had passed through to get to him if he studied it closely enough.

A terrible trait for receiving gifts, but nothing he could help when he was part of most every crafting and gathering guild in Eorzea and a few beyond.

Plucking the note from the leather he confirmed it was indeed Taelis’ efficient script as he read it.

_‘You insisted these two things specifically be brought to you, but the rest of your things are at your desk. I’ll handle your bird._

_Happy Starlight and get some fucking sleep._

_\- T’_

Huffing a weak laugh under his breath he glanced up at the bag leaned against the heavy wooden desk on the other side of the large room. Several presents from yesterday tucked safely away; a new writing set and blank music sheets from Y’shtola for his music, a finely balanced hunting knife to replace one he’d lost from Thancred, a new collection of folktales from the Sixth Astral Era from Urianger, and a handmade custom waistcoat perfect for formal events courtesy of Tataru. There were a few other assorted items from his guild mates as well like a set of replacement strings for his harp from Taelis and a thick coat from Fei Yi so he wouldn’t ‘be catching the cold’ in his visits to Ishgard.

He didn’t think he was particularly materialistic but, it made his heart warm regardless. They were fairly simple things, but they suggested an understanding few could speak for. Because when it seemed like the whole world knew his name, it was nice to know that at least a few people knew Alvaar and not just the Warrior of Light.

Taking another long drink from the canteen he screwed it closed before setting it gently back on the side table and slipping further into the covers. Burying himself under the warm weight of the blanket and starting to doze back off rather quickly.

It was part of the celebration, and part of his tradition too after all. Though he spent nearly every other day running all over the continent, doing errands or jobs or smiting new evils, today was a day he didn’t do anything at all. And cozy and warm with a reminder of his many friends, the Bard was content to slip off into peaceful dreams for a change.


	6. Conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post-Stormblood(?) Could be anywhere after that really. No Spoilers
> 
> Warnings: For implied/referenced underage sexual abuse and thoughts of violence. This is the prompt where that T rating comes in.
> 
> Notes: Oh boy, first time having to puzzle out trigger warnings.
> 
> Bear with me, this ones a tad darker than the rest, as it touches a little into Alvaar’s backstory and childhood. Alvaar did… not have an easy early childhood. It’s not quite Yotsuyu levels of bad being sold into a brothel and all, but it’s still pretty bad and in the same vein given he was an orphan doing whatever he could to survive. It is however, implied and not explicitly detailed. Not any worse than daytime TV these days at least.
> 
> Also of note, Alvaar does have some degree of anger management issues. They are mostly under control of ARR, but it is something he lives with. One day I’m going to post how Halatali and Ilberd went down…
> 
> [And then I did....](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24171265)

“Hey… don’t I know you?”

The question comes with a hand gripped around his wrist firmly and if Alvaar Aldaviir, famed Bard and renowned Warrior of Light, had not spent the last several years clashing with Gods it might have pulled him off balance. Instead he abruptly shifted his footing to face the man and a swift turn of his wrist had him free, slipping into a ready stance that was now second nature.

The old Highlander blinked slowly, frowning a bit and studying Alvaar’s face with a drunken intensity as the Elezen stared down at him silently. A tense few moments passed before Alvaar eased a bit when no ensuing brawl began, loosening his fingers from the snaps of his hunting knife.

“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else,” he murmured, turning to continue through the street after the twins, who had noticed his absence and were trailing back for him.

“Nah! I know you. I know I do…” the man insisted.

“I get that a lot,” Alvaar returned noncommittally.

“Tch! Just cause you may be some Twelves-damned hero don’t change what you were, boy,” the man spat.

It made the Bard hesitate for just a moment; expression still stoic even as a flicker of dread pierced through his stomach as he stopped.

“Alvaar? What kept you?” Alisaie called, pacing back to him and glancing warily at the stranger still leering at him.

“I remember that mouth Alvaar… you still have those pretty lips made for dick sucking. They might laud you as a hero, but that ain’t the truth. Truth is you’re still just a beggar whore ain’t you?”

“Oh? What respectable gentleman is this?” Alphinaud asked, pacing up beside the Bard, tone neutral but gaze fixed and calculating.

“A whoreson that’s going to lose his tongue if he keeps talking,” Alisaie snarled from his other side, fingers curling around the hilt of her rapier.

He was about to speak, or he wanted to at least. Trying to find words that could form on his tongue through the faint buzz of static in his ears and the flashes of old memories like a knife in his stomach. The cold and the gnawing hunger and the promise of coin for just a little favor, right? What was the harm?

There are the first warning flickers of adrenaline twitching in his fingers and the steady whine of irritation starting to drip over his brain. Signs he’s felt countless times before when he was younger and more volatile. When violent outbursts and rage induced blackouts were more commonplace.

No, he told himself with a slow sigh. Not today. Some old drunk wasn’t worth self-destructing and causing them all more trouble instead. No matter how nice the thought was of grabbing that old wooden board or loose chunk of cobble off the ground and smashing it into the side of his head. Over and over until red cloaked his face and he wouldn’t ever breathe a word of those dark and bitter days again…

_No._

If he could make it through the damnable Bloody Banquet without harming anyone, some sorry old leche wasn’t going to get the better of him. **He wasn’t.**

“Scuse ye lady. We was havin’ a conversation, wasn’t we? But I suppose ya always were someone’s pretty lil bitch weren’t you boy?” he taunted, raising his voice as he ignored the Red Mage. “Whose lap are ya warming now eh? Always did look real pretty choking on highlander cock but must be nobles is easier to take.”

“Let one more treacherous lie slip out of your foul mouth and I’ll gladly alleviate the condition!” Alisaie snapped, rapier and focus flashing into her hands as she dropped into a ready position, sword point dancing in front of the man’s face and making him stumble backwards slightly once it finally registered.

“Alisaie.”

The woman paused, glancing over at Alvaar at the stern tone.

“We have important business to attend. Besides, if I wanted to stand around and listen to people be wrong, I’d sit in with the Syndicate. Let’s go,” he stated firmly before walking away.

“You ain’t any better than the rest of us Alvaar! You’re still nothing but a damned whore!” the man yelled after him.

“Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” Alisaie seethed a few minutes later, fingers drumming on the hilt of her sword. “Yelling lies in the middle of Ul’dah like that? You should have let me silence him the old-fashioned way I’d be doing the city a service, or in the least we could have called the guards.”

“Sister, using violence to settle a dispute only lends credence to slander. It is best to not add fuel to the flame and let it snuff itself out,” Alphinaud chided, glancing at Alvaar as the man continued to pace in silence.

Tsking under her breath she shot her twin a heated look. “So instead we should just stand around and let someone call our friend a whore? Speak such detestable things? There may be no truth to it but it’s hardly fair to expect Alvaar to grin and bear such insults,” she returned.

“And what if it was true?” Alvaar asked softly, plodding to a stop as they reached the end of the Sapphire Exchange, the hum of the crowd behind them.

“But it isn’t,” she returned simply, arms crossing over her chest as she stopped as well.

Alphinaud paused, again studying Alvaar for a moment before a spark of understanding lit in his eyes, shooting a look at Alisaie that the Red Mage missed in her upset.

“But if it was?” Alvaar insisted.

“Then why would it matter?” she tossed back, gesturing flippantly. “What a person was doesn’t change what they could be else what would be the point of trying to save Eorzea at all? If that were the case, there would be no hope for the Alliance, and hardly a hope of a better future. But you weren’t ever such to begin with, so I don’t see why…” Finally turning to stare at the Bard her expression grew faintly puzzled as he continued to stand in silence, face shielded under the brim of his hat as he’d ducked his chin in thought.

“… Alvaar?” Alisaie asked, voice softer and edged in concern.

“Mmm, a fair point. What would it matter…?” he mused aloud before lifting his head and fixing his gaze ahead into the city. “But there’s that meeting to attend. We shouldn’t tarry any further.”

He made it all of two steps before he felt hands close over his, again automatically shifting his stance though he didn’t wrest himself free.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alisaie insisted earnestly, meeting his shaded eyes as her hands squeezed over his.

The Bard remained silent, only giving a faint start and tilting his head as Alphinaud patted at his arm on his other side, offering a reassuring smile.

“Alvaar’s right. We shouldn’t tarry on needless things. Shall we?”

Beginning to let go, Alisaie paused a moment as Alvaar squeezed back gently before pulling away. Sighing with relief under her breath she squared her shoulders as they started off together. “I suppose Alvaar and I were due for a nap while you talk in circles for an hour…” she stated offhandedly.

“Alisaie…” Alphinaud sighed in no small measure of exasperation.

“I wouldn’t sleep through it,” Alvaar piped in, glancing down at the Scholar’s relieved look with a faint smile. “Just don’t check my notes. I’m definitely making notes and not writing a song.”

“Alvaar…”


	7. “There’s only one bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Early ShadowBringers, spoilers accordingly.
> 
> Notes: I wrote too much crap before ‘Academician’ was finalized for English. For now I’m just going to take calling Alphi a Scholar to my grave cause it’s faster.
> 
> That contact starved Alvaar and lonely silent pining Alphinaud though.... (chef kiss) it gives me life.

“Are you certain you don’t wish to carry on to Eulmore? Alternatively I’ve a contact in Wight as well and that would put us closer,“ Alphinaud suggested, though even with his own apparent reservations he wasn’t about to argue with the Warrior of Light.

“My head is pounding, it’s been daylight since I got here, and I’ve no idea when the right time to sleep is. So, before I end up in a place that will probably try to kill me statistically speaking, yes. I’d like to sleep. This your temporary place?” Alvaar asked, gesturing flippantly at the small but sturdy shack ahead of them.

“We’re here for diplomatic reasons Alvaar,” Alphinaud chided before perking up. “Ah, yes it is,” he replied cautiously.

“Looks good enough to me. Anywhere not in the open is fine. I don’t fancy waking up to teeth.”

Glancing at Alvaar again, the Scholar silenced his reflexive protest. More than anything he wanted to carry on to Eulmore. Where the last few months had seen his efforts to parlay stonewalled, seeing the Warrior of Light had been like a shot in the arm. Wherever Alvaar went, progress was never far behind so he didn’t doubt his plans would find fruition one way or another. Securing an alliance with Eulmore for the Crystarium would gain them malms in their crusade to free the First from its Calamity and help to secure the Source as well.

It would also avert the dark future Urianger had foretold and save Alvaar’s life in the process.

But another glance confirmed what he’d already noted a few times on their walk, and he had not seen Alvaar looking quite so haggard since his clash with Zenos. It would be foolish to deny him a moment of respite when it was available, but as he unlocked and shoved the door in, he couldn’t help the twitch of anxiety in his stomach at the humble abode. Little more than a single room with a bed, fireplace, small cooking stove, and a table he’d littered with various notes and papers.

Alvaar paced ahead as Alphinaud gestured him through, pausing with a squint as his eyes adjusted to the gloom after being in the perpetual rays of day. Looking about with a faint sniff he un-shouldered his bow and set about removing his gear with a tidy efficiency.

“Could use a good dusting,” he commented placidly, and despite everything it made Alphinaud chuckle.

“I’ve been a bit too busy in my efforts helping the poor and downtrodden to fetch a duster,” he replied wryly.

“Tsk. Rich boys seldom change in matters of cleaning,” Alvaar teased, and if not for the grin that followed it, he might almost have been offended.

Sinking to a seat on the edge of the bed, Alvaar began unlacing his boots with a faint sigh as the Scholar found himself a seat at the table.

Studying the floor a moment, Alvaar glanced up briefly. “There’s paw prints in the dust.”

Blinking a moment, Alphinaud looked away abruptly as he found a few of his old scribbled out notes suddenly extremely interesting. “I’ve found a few spare moments to study,” he deflected cooly.

“A lot of paw prints.”

“Carbuncles pace Alvaar, you know this.”

“They stop here and there’s no sign of bedding down on the floor but plenty that suggest they’ve jumped.”

The Scholar pointedly kept looking away as his ears started to burn, shuffling a few papers about. “Yes, well, it gets cold some days and smoke attract sin eaters or unwanted attention. Furthermore, I’m lead to believe many a hunter keeps a hound for protection.”

A soft amused sound left the Bard as he pulled his bow into his lap to inspect. “Sure,” he answered noncommittally a moment, testing the string with an audible twang. “… so when do I get to borrow one for a cuddle companion?”

Scoffing and tossing a hand at him just made Alvaar laugh good-naturedly.

“Ah don’t get upset. If I was any good at magic I’d absolutely keep a carbuncle around. They’re precious.”

The answering grumble preceded a brief silence Alvaar used to wax the bowstring. It was a familiar sound, the low scrape humming faintly in the room. A place that had so often been filled with silence…

“It’s been… solitary,” Alphinaud states offhandedly, still leafing through his papers.

There’s a pause before Alvaar goes back to work. “Yea. I can relate…” he replies softly.

It’s enough to have him meeting pale lavender eyes after a moment, and though it’s been over a year he understands it in an instant all the same. In that same nameless and wordless way they could exchange a look in Doma and be on the same page. The unspoken understanding he’d long only shared with his twin.

Loneliness hadn’t been his burden alone it seemed…

They resume their own work without a word but the quiet isn’t uncomfortable; instead it ranges between them with an air of easy familiarity.

It’s the soft repeated pops of his spine as Alvaar stretches that signal the Bards finished his maintenance routine.

“Finally ready for bed?” Alphinaud asks, flipping through one of the tomes he’d since borrowed from the locals, hardly surprised when the only reply he gets is a grunt of affirmation. “Rest as long as you need. I’ll keep myself busy in the meantime,” Alphinaud finished, offering a quiet smile over the book in his lap.

He’s unsurprised to find Alvaar fixing him with an unreadable stare, but it doesn’t stop the nervousness from bubbling in his stomach anyway.

“You’re not going to rest?” Alvaar asks.

“I’m fine. I got plenty of sleep earlier.” It’s the continued scrutinizing stare that has him waving it off with a hasty, “Really! You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I always worry about you,” Alvaar replies bluntly, and it’s only the brief surprised blink that says he hadn’t meant to say it. Shaking his head with a sigh, he thumps onto his back on the cheap mattress and stares at the ceiling. “… It’s that there’s only one bed isn’t it?”

Even without Alvaar staring at him, the Scholar feels the flush burning on his face. “H-hardly. I would simply rather you sleep well and if I need to rest myself I’ll make do.”

“Oh please,” Alvaar huffs sarcastically. “It’s not even the first time we’ve shared sleeping space you baby.” The automatic affronted huff it earns has him meeting brilliant blue eyes as the Scholar glowers faintly.

Alphinaud had expected some retort. Perhaps even a bit of teasing at his sensibilities. He had not been expecting the Bard to rise to his feet and tromp over before hefting him up over a shoulder like a bag of popotos. Curse it all did he really weigh that little?!

In the least he’d managed not to squeak, even if he still scrabbled for purchase like a surprised house coeurl with similarly ineffectual noises of protest. But even as he tenses in expectation of being tossed to the bed, he instead finds himself set down with surprising care. There’s a brief moment where Alvaar’s face is close to his and even as his stomach flips with something suspiciously more than vertigo at the abrupt movement, the dark shadows under Alvaar’s eyes are more striking still.

Everything about him is exhausted and that bothers him more than the embarrassment. He almost reaches for him on instinct until Alvaar thumps down beside him heavily, resting on his side and laying with his back to him.

“Sleep, or read, or… whatever,” Alvaar murmurs, words quiet and weighed with guilt. “Just please don’t go.”

It’s far from the first time Alphinaud has found himself sharing the same bed space with the Bard, though the majority of them Alvaar didn’t seem to remember given he’d been hopelessly drunk and lonely. Perhaps that’s what tips him off to what the Bard is looking for, as it was only ever when he’d drank himself into a stupor mired in the heartbreak of his deceased lover that Alvaar would ever admit he needed contact. That the stalwart and stoic Hero of Eorzea needed the reassurance of another’s touch. But usually when he did he was wrapped around the Scholar protectively, warding off threat and cold alike…

Seeing his back like this was honestly rather disconcerting. Like the many times he’d watched the Warrior of Light march into danger only he could face and left him behind to fret and hope and wait.

But this time there was no Primal threat or great danger. This time there wasn’t anything to stop him and no excuse to keep his distance.

So he pushed back his anxiety and reached out anyway. Just as he had before in a myriad of other places. The same as the Bard has done for him repeatedly, be it a steadying hand or the familiar ruffle to his hair.

Alvaar doesn’t jolt when a palm presses to his back, but he does go very still.

“Give me a moment? You’ll want the shades drawn to help you sleep,” Alphinaud murmurs, only moving after Alvaar gives a faint nod. Slipping to his feet he draws the wood slated shades and curtains, casting the room into a dim shade it takes him a moment to reorient to. Removing his poncho, he drapes it over the back of the chair and quickly hangs up the black leather jacket and cape Alvaar had stripped off earlier. All the while he can feel the Bards stare at his back.

Again steeling his nerve, he makes a shooing gesture at the Bard while he steps out of his boots, giving Alvaar a faint push when he doesn’t move. The low huff of annoyance is at least amusing before Alvaar shifts back to make room for him and stilling again as the Scholar pulls the covers up before slipping in beside him.

He’s fit up against Alvaar’s chest in a moment, hesitating just a second before looping an arm around his waist. There’s a long pause that he spends hoping and maybe even praying he hasn’t overstepped some new boundary in the year and a half they’d been apart. Surely he hadn’t? Alvaar had pulled him close like this many times before in the past so he couldn’t be-

The feel of a strong arm settling around his back and a warm sigh ruffling his hair quiets the fears and an abrupt sense of relief surges through him.

“Thank you.” It’s soft, barely a whisper, but the Scholar hears it all the same.

“Anytime. Get some rest Alvaar. There’s much work to be done,” he murmurs, unable to stop the faint grin as the Bard gives a soft snort.

“There’s always much work to be done,” Alvaar grumbles good-naturedly and just a little sleepily. Another slow sigh leaves him, muscles steadily easing and unwinding as another comfortable silence spans between them as the Bard drifts off to sleep.

It’s quiet here, Alphinaud thinks to himself. Quiet and warm and familiar listening to the steady soft breaths of the Bard. Same as it had been in Gridania. Same as it had been in Gyr Abania and Ishgard. A gentle sort of reassurance and protection found him when Alvaar was nearby. A feeling that made even the most frightening of enemies and worries fall away.

Gods but he’d missed this. The calm air of resolve and skill that made impossibilities seem perfectly in reach. That served as the solid base for him to continue striving ever forward to reach his dream.

And perhaps even to be worthy of the Bards unwavering faith and diligent protection…

Fingers clutching against the back of Alvaar’s shirt he pressed the faintest bit closer now that the Bard was asleep. Selfishly soaked in that warmth and comfort. A heat that kept even the bitterest chill at bay, even partially summoned as he was, almost more aether than flesh and blood. Where food, drink, and even sleep were little more than a passing nuisance and temperature no longer bothered him as it once did.

A great many things bothered him less on the First, as if leaving his body behind had left many of the instinctive desires as well.

But wrapped up in Alvaar’s arms, hearing the soft and steady beat of his heart against his ear… it eases something in him that he’d almost forgotten. Quiets the doubts and settles that feeling of loneliness that had been gradually growing in him as the days had passed by in the First.

Traveling to a foreign land wasn’t a new experience for him, the most difficult part had been learning the new terminologies and getting by without a reputation to work with. But as the days turned to weeks, turned to months…

His work was an important distraction, but even in Kholusia, worlds away from the Source, he’d still looked up on occasion half expecting to see the Bard on the horizon.

And then one day, there he was. And while he’s made many acquaintances and friends on the First, it wasn’t quite the same as the kinship he felt with the Scions and even less the unbreakable bond he’d forged with the Warrior of Light. Inducted at the same time and having endured trials across the Source side by side.

It was rather like the relief he felt seeing Alisaie again after her many solo adventures. A heartfelt happiness that they were alive and well. An easing of the walls he’d had to put up as a visitor from the Source.

Alvaar feels more like home than anywhere else and the sudden guilty realization of it doesn’t keep him from tightening his grip. It doesn’t stop the low humming dread that had lingered in his stomach since they’d first heard Urianger’s vision and the death that it foretold.

It doesn’t stop him from thinking how eerily close Alvaar’s life teeters on the edge if they fail to save the First. The haunting memory of the Bard staring sightlessly into a snow swirled abyss and leaned so far over wrought iron rails it had made his heart freeze in his chest.

The steady pulse that beats back against his fingers where he’d unknowingly placed his palm to Alvaar’s chest is a comfort he couldn’t explain. A slow and gentle tempo that soothes his sudden worried thoughts.

No, he’d been there once before to drag Alvaar back from the brink of death. This time, he mouths the words to himself like a silent oath, this time would be no different. This time he would keep up. He would be there with his magic to offer aide and protection. They would save the First and then the Source and live to see peaceful days again.

And with Alvaar once more standing resolute at his side, it felt more a matter of time than happenstance.


	8. First “I Love You”/Bandaging Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers(?)), Minimal Spoilers for 5.0 end. 
> 
> Notes:
> 
> \- I continue to refer to Alphinaud as a Scholar instead of Academician for no reason but laziness and bad habits.  
> \- I understand the ‘time bubble’ issue of MMO’s, but for writing I subscribe to time actually passing between expansions. I don’t keep a hard and fast rule, but sort of lean toward roughly 1 year per expansion if not longer. Otherwise everyone would be mired under so much PTSD I don’t know how the Scions would get anything done, and please let my WoL breathe?  
> \- Somehow, someway, Alvaar has gotten the better of me and it’s eventual committed relationship polygamy with the Leveilleurs up in here. After actual months of telling myself no, I give up. If you hate that, pass on my stuff and have a great day.  
> \- Just for posterity, there will never be twincest. I don’t have a personal stance on people’s fiction about fictional people, but it just doesn’t make sense for the twins to me when I write them.

The first time Alphinaud hears Alvaar utter those words, he’s seventeen. Seventeen and full of fire and determination to help right the wrongs of a thousand-year war and maybe redeem some of his own foolishness.

Seventeen and half scandalized to catch his Warrior of Light buried against Lord Haurchefant’s chest before they readied to infiltrate the Vault after Ser Aymeric.

It wasn’t as if he’d gone _looking_ of course. Such things would have been kept a better secret behind a closed door and not front and center to whomever strolled into House Fortemps expecting an audience. But romantic subtly wasn’t… exactly Lord Haurchefant’s forte and neither was it Alvaar’s. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known when it was the talk of Camp Dragonhead and the house servants anyway.

But it is perhaps the first time the Arcanist had seen any hint of the word “love” meaning something beyond dutifully repeated and expected phrases. Spoken as if it’s some personal secret, or more of a promise than just a response. Something alive and wild instead of the light and flippant ways he’d heard it used in Sharlayan and among nobility.

There’s a weight to those words that’s like aether humming in an incantation.

It means something when Alvaar says it and the Lord’s sharp features soften as he nuzzles into blond hair, and it means even more when Haurchefant answers in kind and some of the tension in the Bard’s shoulders ease. There’s a thousand words held in that phrase, like pages and pages of information distilled in a single line of arcane shorthand. History condensed into a lone footnote.

He never had to ask why Alvaar’s wails of pain as he’d held his dead lover mere hours later sounded like a heart breaking in two.

The next time he hears them, it’s not quite the same.

He’s twenty (or was it twenty-one?) and farther from home than he’d ever dreamed. Fresh from facing off against Emet-Selch as they’d fought to save the First from destruction. Twenty and exhausted and content to doze quietly in the newly returned night alongside the beds two other occupants, arms draped over Alisaie and Alvaar both. He remembers feeling Alvaar’s knuckles brush his cheek, tiredly meeting the Bard’s gaze in the dark and hearing those words again.

They don’t mean the same thing, but it doesn’t overly bother him after the torture Alvaar had endured for the worlds. After the last several months Alphinaud had spent fighting sin eaters, stubborn short-term mindsets, and bitter loneliness in Kholusia.

Being called family, being called ‘home’ had only echoed what he’d felt too. The Scions, his Sister, and Alvaar, were what felt most like home. Not a large but empty feeling manor back in Sharlayan, cut off and indifferent to the world.

It’s a different kind of love but it doesn’t mean any less nor is it remotely insincere.

And even if there’s a faint disappointment in his heart he would never admit to, it’s fine. More than anything he’s simply happy that they’re still together. Still alive. Still able to fight and produce another miracle for the people of the First and the Source.

He’s twenty-two and he knows Alvaar loves him deeply. He’s said it in every other conceivable way. Let poetry and sweet words fall from his lips or sent the meaning across in those brushes of familiar contact. Had the feeling burned into his body and mind more times than he could ever hope to keep track of…

But Alvaar hadn’t ever said it.

It’s silly and he knows it. He has no reason to doubt Alvaar and truly he knows the way the Bard feels for him isn’t anything less than his previous lover. That there was room enough in that gentle heart for all three of them. Jealousy is a terrible thing after all, so he convinces himself it doesn’t matter. Comforts himself and chides Alisaie gently when she inquires on it herself. Alvaar had been through a great deal of hardship and pain. And as they both didn’t doubt the depth nor truth of his feelings, the specific words should hardly matter.

He’s twenty-three, and when Alvaar finally says them he barely notices. There’s too much blood, and Alvaar’s laugh is too weak and lilting from it. His mind is too busy on spells and incantations to register it as he works quickly.

Alvaar is fine. He’s always fine. He comes back beaten and bloody and smiling and laughing and visibly delights in being doted upon and taken care of. A routine scouting of the border wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near as deadly as the hopeless situations he’d been sent into before. He’s fine.

The Scholar is internally utterly _terrified_ of course, but he knows from too much firsthand knowledge that there’s no room for panic as a healer. If he panicked, things would quickly turn into ‘not fine’ and neither of them had time for that.

So for right now, spells and aether humming in his veins, it’s fine.

* * *

“Did you get a haircut recently?” Alvaar asks, letting Alphinaud clean, tape, and bandage his wounds. Magic had healed the critical damage and stopped the bleeding, but it would take time to heal the rest and a few more applications of white magic tomorrow. Cleaning and bandaging would ensure a smoother transition through the process, so it’s a step he takes anyway, perched on the edge of the medical bed while the Bard sits propped up against pillows.

“You should be taking this more seriously,” the Scholar returns flatly, pushing Alvaar’s hand away from his hair gently so he can keep working.

“I am. But I’m just so… very happy,” Alvaar murmured, a smile stretching across his exhausted face. “I made it back this time, I’m here, and you’re here, and it will work this time.”

It’s said with such offhanded confidence it makes the Scholar blink. “What? Alvaar you’re delirious, stay still.”

A hum of agreement rings in the Bards throat as he nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re done and listening. He said I didn’t say it enough… That when I made it back to be sure to tell you something.”

He wants to pay more attention to Alvaar’s curious words but there would be time for it later. Though he was comfortably stabilized and would no doubt make a full recovery in a matter of days with the Warrior of Light’s sometimes obnoxious recovery speed, it’s never something he likes to leave to chance. If he overlooked something now, it could be disastrous later.

“He?” The inquiry slides off his tongue in a distracted manner, during which his moonstone carbuncle chirps with interest where it’s bedded down along Alvaar’s legs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alvaar replies, glossing over it as his attention shifts back to the carbuncle eyeing him expectantly. “Can I have my hand back now?”

Another deft turn of the roll of bandages, a swift snip of the medical shears, and a tidy tie off had him releasing Alvaar’s arm with a nod. “Sure. Other arm if you would.”

Swapping obediently, Alvaar quickly settled his freed hand into plush white fur, grinning brightly. “Hey Carbi… I missed you too,” he cooed, chuckling at the fond chirp and purr he got in answer. “You’re the best summon ever aren’t you?”

Snorting under his breath, Alphinaud keeps at his work until he’s finished, letting his summon keep up its job of distracting Alvaar’s focus from pawing at him so he can work in peace. Alvaar was always a good patient, but woozy with blood loss he sometimes got sillier than was helpful. It made his moonstone carbuncle an utter lifesaver, and there were few helpers he would rather have working beside him. Though he had long developed more potent summons, Alvaar’s preference and the sheer number of revisions and intricacies of its design had left moonstone as one of his masterpieces. The patient bedside manner and attentive nature had made it a nursemaid second to none, and given the way it was currently cozied into Alvaar’s side and subtly keeping him quiet and still as it soaked up affection like a sponge, it remained a staple of his repertoire for good reason.

Inspecting the last of his work, he gives a satisfied nod before starting to pack things away. After almost seven years of chasing Alvaar’s shadow and tending to his wounds, his first aid is as neat and tidy as an experienced chirurgeon. A far cry from his fumbled and panicked work the Bard had coached him through with grit teeth in Coerthas. It’s only once he sets the supplies back on the shelves that he finally gives himself leave to think about anything but healing.

He’s seated back at Alvaar’s side before he realizes he’s made the steps, a bandaged hand curling warm at his jaw and pulling him closer until they bump foreheads together. It’s a movement that he’s long used to, a familiar gesture that helps to quiet the panic that had boiled over in his chest if not the emotion that threatens its place.

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from frightening me like that again,” Alphinaud murmured softly, a faint tremor in his voice but refusing to cry. Alvaar was fine! There wasn’t any reason to overreact!

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Was the best I could manage,” Alvaar replied in the stilted way he picked up when he was exhausted. Given how much harder he was leaning into the Scholar, none of it surprised him.

Making a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat he leaned the faintest bit back into the Warrior of Light, soaking up the steady warmth that wicked off him and the silent reassurance he was still there. “Just… be more careful next time. For now you should focus on healing.”

“Thank you for saving me Alphi,” Alvaar whispered with a heartfelt gratitude.

It was enough to make the Scholar flush. “I… Any other healer would have done the same.”

“Maybe. But any other healer wouldn’t be worth me dragging myself back to. Sides, Alisaie was too far,” he joked fondly.

Alphinaud tutted under his breath, pulling back to grip Alvaar’s face in his hands and press a featherlight kiss to his brow before burying his nose into soft golden strands. “Jokes aside, thank you for coming back. If scaring me half to death means that you’ll pull through, then I would take that burden every time.”

There’s something about the way Alvaar relaxes into him, the faint breath of a sigh before tension eases out of his neck and jaw, that has always meant the world to him. It was too many emotions to articulate clearly, but it always made his heart feel warm. Reminded him that even if he wasn’t able to command the same fear and awe as the Warrior of Light, to be a brilliant blade that cut through the dark and evil that threatened them, the rallying cry that brought their forces to victory, what he could do was no less important.

All great hero’s needed a home to return to, else they would eventually feel they had nothing left to fight for.

“Alphi?”

“Yes Alvaar?”

Pulling back enough to regard him a moment with scrutiny, the Bard leaned in with a purposeful ease, lips brushing against his chastely for a moment before murmuring something against his skin.

This time he heard them. Felt their movement and the warmth of them against his lips and burning against his skin. Poetry and promise and providence all in one.

“I love you.”

It was no big deal. It was a sentiment he’d always known from 1,001 things Alvaar did all the time. Something he had long convinced himself didn’t matter. A phrase used over and over until it’s meaning was practically lost.

But oh.

_Oh…_

How those words shook him to the depths of his soul and cut him in two regardless.

He’s twenty-one again for just a moment. Full of questions and a heart fuller still with longing, listening to Alvaar speak of love he’d known with that easy and sincere air of his. Brutally honest as ever.

Love was ruinous. Love would destroy you in ways you didn’t think were possible. Love was thirst and hunger. And all your days, when you’d known the taste of true love, of something that clutched past your heart and into your soul, you would always want for more of it.

In the present with his face buried against Alvaar’s shoulder, tears welling over and soaking into clean white bandages, he feels like a beast half starved.

“I would really like it if you stayed,” Alvaar murmurs, still running his fingers along the Scholar’s back soothingly. He’s infuriatingly casual for having just reduced his lover to tears. If he hadn’t just spent an hour healing and bandaging him up, Alphinaud would probably have swatted him.

Instead he just nods.

He’d never been very good at refusing that particular request anyway. Even when he was the one chastising Alvaar on why sharing a medical bed was in poor interest of his health.

But it’s late, and he’s tired, and nuzzling into the warm muscle of Alvaar’s shoulder he doesn’t want to leave anyway. So, he pulls himself up onto the bed fully, curling up beside him and keeping his cheek settled against the Bard’s shoulder that’s free of bruises. He knows he won’t sleep _well_ but the situation is unfortunately familiar enough he knows that he’ll still get plenty of rest for tomorrow’s troubles.

“Alvaar?” he asks softly after they’ve both settled into the pillows, sheets, and each other accordingly.

“Yea?”

“You really need a shower.”

It has Alvaar laughing enough to make him wince, “Brat… don’t make me laugh that hurts.”

Alphinaud just smiles softly and hums an amused note as Alvaar settles further against him.

“Alvaar?” he asks again after a few minutes, getting a soft grunt of acknowledgement.

Shifting enough to study the soft and unguarded profile he’s sketched a hundred times before from memory, he presses a brief kiss to the Bard’s jaw and settles in for sleep.

“I love you too.”


	9. Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers(?)), No Spoilers
> 
> Notes: All characters are aged up. Just a brief study on character dynamics. Established Relationship.

They each kiss different.

It’s not something _surprising_ of course, as even when Alvaar had first met the Leveilleur twins all those years ago he could tell the similarities mostly ended with appearance. And with his years as an unrepentant floozy, it wasn’t like he was wholly unfamiliar to the variety of the act. He’d had his storied share in his early days of adventuring.

Even so it was something so distinct between the pair he couldn’t help but be amused when he could tell without opening his eyes who was rising early from bed without looking.

That it was Alphinaud when a lingering chaste brush of lips touched his brow or Alisaie catching his mouth for a quick heated kiss.

Alisaie tended to kiss like any day could be their last. Gripping onto his clothes hard enough to leave ruffles in the finer fabric. He was half certain there must be perpetual indents at the base of his skull in the shape of her fingers given the frequency she’d haul him close and claim his lips with hers.

Sometimes there’d be a touch of teeth or a flick of tongue to ask for something hotter. She was fire and passion and unrestrained vibrancy when it suited her mood. Brash and often striking first like the testing blow in a duel. Physical and oft times controlling the initial pace with an abrupt and easy demand.

Alisaie was the initial burn of a strong liquor, and in much the same fashion would she settle into something cozy and warm and familiar. Show the sweet and compassionate heart under all the barbs and sass.

With the unspoken reassurance of still being there, of having the time for more than a passionate clash, the Red Mage would usually ease into something soft. Let him take the time to linger and touch and romance until she was almost as red as her clothes and moved to shut him up the best way she knew how.

Alphinaud, on the other hand, was far less prone to spontaneity and even less to the absence of words. In the faintest brush of lips against his skin there was the weight of them, spoken or otherwise.

He kissed like a promise that believed an eternity stretched out before them, prosperous and hopeful and bright.

It was why there was almost always a sound preceding it, often a familiar warmth and affection wrapped around the syllables of his name.

There were novels worth of speeches and poetry and vows in the way he lingered and the thoroughness of his attention. Letters formed sometimes with effortless skill or fumbled in embarrassment, given voice beforehand or pressed to his mouth in earnest belief the Bard would understand.

Somehow each time Alvaar does. From each unspoken ‘I love you’ against his cheek to the long prose the Scholar couldn’t voice. Sentences and feelings woven in lips lingering against each scar. Everything from how much he meant to how sorry he felt. The worry and fear and belief and admiration.

The silent plea to always return home hale and whole and triumphant. The way he sighed and sank a bit with relief when the Bard held him and answered back without words that he knew.

But as for Alvaar?

If you asked the twins there would probably have to be thought after the embarrassed fluster or annoyed scoff. Gossip was hardly becoming after all, and what an invasive question of the Hero of the realm.

But Alvaar kissed with all the timing and fervor and skill of a dance. Matching and answering in kind. Easy and effortless with little care for modesty when he’d always been honest in his affections.

It made it easy to miss the timidity underneath, veiled as it was. The faint hesitation on initial contact as if making sure it was still okay and that he was still wanted. As if he still expected to be pushed away or the moment to vanish or any other thing on a myriad list to intrude.

A pause for the other proverbial boot to drop as it had always seemed to do in his life.

It was most easily felt in the way his touch would linger beforehand, fingers threading together or leaning the faintest bit against them. A silent question in the warmth of that contact that waited for an answer of acceptance.

It had yet to fall on deaf ears.


	10. Day Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers(?)), No Spoilers
> 
> Notes: All characters are aged up. Mentioned poly relationship between my WoL and the twins, but nothing more.
> 
> \- Rosa was the white mage who adopted Alvaar off the street, and is in large part responsible for him not being a ragey mess and instead a Relatively Good Boy. She went missing during the Seventh Umbral Calamity in the Battle of Carteneau. I'd like to put up some scribblings on her at some point...

It’s been over a month since Alvaar had last been in the Rising Stones, off on yet another Grand Adventure into who knows what that would likely end with him and a team of adventurers emerging triumphant over an enemy that was threatening the world. If Alisaie hadn’t kept meeting people corroborating his stories, she would have refused to believe the amount of ancient evils the Warrior of Light seemed to keep tripping over. It was almost as if he couldn’t go a week without kicking a rock that unleashed an ancient voidkin hellbent on genocide.

Granted, in all fairness she couldn’t fault him for his absence. Her own travels of Eorzea had only recently seen her back in Mor Dhona and was likely the only reason she wasn’t vocally irritated he hadn’t invited her along. Well, that and the obvious fatigue in his voice when she’d called him via link pearl to poke fun at him proper. He would be back soon, his exhausted voice had confirmed, and he looked forward to nothing more than sleeping in late sandwiched between his lovers in their shared room and catching up on what they’d been up to over breakfast and tea. And because he would be back on what was now tomorrow, it meant she would have her hands full today.

So she rose early per her usual, but instead of treading the worn path to her practice spot on the lake, she made straight for the kitchen long before the hired staff had arrived. Pulling a recipe tin down from one of the high shelves and flipping through numerous cards in varieties of penmanship until she found one featuring her own efficient script. Reading over the whole recipe once, and then a second time she sighed and glared at the oven and then the refrigerator before rolling up her sleeves and setting to work.

* * *

An hour later, with pastry sheets chilling in the kitchen, she made for the Aetheryte Plaza and took herself to Bentbranch Meadows before setting out South. The walk toward the Mirror was uneventful, the few monsters that wandered about freely were too docile to cause much trouble, but the weather was already comfortably warm and the skies were promising to be a beautiful day.

It was a shame her quarry would be less than agreeable it seemed, she mused as she eyed the blackberry bushes and their thorns sourly.

“… He failed to mention needing gloves for this,” she grumbled aloud before sighing and resolving to making the best of it. At least she could heal any scratches on her own she reasoned. Which was good, because over the course of the next few hours she earned herself plenty.

* * *

“Correct me if I am mistaken Alisaie but… I thought you hated blackberries?” Alphinaud asks from the side, watching her work in the kitchen of the Rising Stones late that afternoon with confused interest.

“I do,” she replies simply, continuing to spread the dark filling over cut squares of puff pastry.

“But you’re making blackberry turnovers? When you have repeatedly said you hate baking?” he continued, no less confused.

“I am.”

“… Were you perhaps going to clarify why you’ve taken a full day to make one of your least favorite baked goods, or should I just forget all about it?”

“I’ll lose track of time if you stand around gawping and asking silly questions. I’m making them because I am so if you’re not helping, don’t you have more important work to be doing?” she snipped flatly.

Raising his hands up in a placating gesture, the Scholar opted to take his leave. Even as her twin, some things his sister did he figured he would never understand.

* * *

“ _And_ the serving tower? You’re spoiling me,” Alvaar teased, settling himself into a seat at their usual table in the Rising Stones.

“Hardly. Consider it payment for whatever undoubtedly grand tale you’ll have to tell. I could use a good mystery for how this one sprung up,” Alisaie replied, setting the three tower snack tray on the table while her brother brought the tea.

“You know every time you bring that tower out, I always secretly panic about what order it’s supposed to be eaten in,” Alvaar remarked. “Then I notice it’s loaded with sweets and I remember you picked it out and it doesn’t matter.”

“Rude,” she sniffed, accepting the teacup Alphinaud offered to her. “It’s too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. Did you expect a full spread? Maybe even rolling out a red carpet for your arrival oh Grand Hero of the Realm?”

Chuckling, Alvaar waved it off and accepted his cup of tea as well. “Of course not. Just happy to see you and give _you_ shit for a change. Short lived as it is… Thank you Alphi. How have you been?”

Giving a quiet smile as he curled his fingers about his teacup, the Scholar inclined his head. “Busy as ever. Offering advice and mediating with the beast tribes to help smooth over relations among the factions. Assisting in logistics for rebuilding efforts and writing letters of introduction…”

“Paperwork. He’s either been holed up in the study or away putting people to sleep with his speeches since you left,” Alisaie cut in flatly.

Alphinaud stared at his twin sourly for a moment before he lifted his cup and asked politely, “Alisaie, how are Ga Bu and the kobolds of U’Ghamaro by the way? Have trade relations with Limsa Lominsa been worked out? That was where your latest adventure went to yes? Some monster trouble in the mines?”

A soft snort left her before she flashed him a smile. “Yes, yes, brother I hear you loud and clear. Forgive my impatience, you know I wouldn’t dream of downplaying the importance of your diplomatic efforts. But given I skipped breakfast I would very much like it if our guest would make his choice of snacks so I can be one turn closer to my own given these silly rules of etiquette you both harp on me about.”

Biting down his laughter, Alvaar took a slow sip of his tea as the pair swung into fond bickering. Glancing over the trays he raised a brow before picking a few pieces with interest.

“From the sounds of it between the pair of you the Warrior of Light will be out of work. Excellent. I wouldn’t mind an early retirement from saving the world every other year or so,” he remarked once their spat slowed while Alphinaud selected his fare. Biting into his first pick and chewing thoughtfully for a moment, Alvaar went abruptly still, eyes wide as if in a moment of revelation.

“Alvaar?” Alphinaud asked hesitantly, glancing at his twin who was suddenly back to sipping her tea and studying the trays with shrewd assessment.

“Hm?” Blinking at him, the Bard offered an awkward smile and patted the air in a flash of rings for reassurance. Swallowing and taking a quick drink of his tea he chuckled softly. “Sorry. Just… had a moment I suppose. This just seems familiar is all,” he murmured, studying his plate as he reminisced. “Rosa used to make blackberry turnovers for me when she came back from long journeys. To make up for her absence I suppose. She’d always ask me about my studies and then tell me about wherever she had been and what adventures she’d been up to… Gods, wherever you got these must use the same recipe. They’ve got it almost down pat.”

Blinking in surprise, Alphinaud stared at his sister pointedly while she carefully selected a fruit tart off the tray.

“Alisaie you should try one of these,” Alvaar chirped happily, licking crumbs off his fingers. “It’s almost spot on for that recipe I told you about.”

“No thanks. I can’t stand blackberries,” she returned politely. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to enjoy them yourself. Now, how did you say that whole ‘accidentally unleashed an ancient evil’ business went again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> A very long time ago before my parents divorced, I remember finding out that my Mom hates Deviled Eggs. Which I found strange because I remember her making them for almost every family event and most holidays, mostly because my Dad loves them.
> 
> It seemed silly that you would learn a recipe you hate, but I’ve asked a number of women over the years if they know a recipe they can’t stand because their S.O. loves it and pretty unanimously got a yes.
> 
> Affection and how women show it is a weird thing. Teaching yourself to do something you hate for someone else, just because it makes them happy. I know it’s not unique to women, but it’s always stuck with me as a prime example of it anyway.


	11. Listening to Music / Polyamory Discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time Frame: Post Canon (years after Shadowbringers (?)) Very minimal spoilers.
> 
> Notes: All characters are aged up. Mentioned possible poly relationship between my WoL and the twins. No, there won’t be incest, ship what you like but I still don’t think it fits the twins’ personalities.
> 
> Companion to '[Movement: Lentando](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309847),' you don't have to read both but it illustrates Alphinaud's behavior more.
> 
> Also I have no idea how I keep writing from Alisaie’s perspective but it keeps happening and I’m not even going to argue at this point.

Her brother was hopeless in matters of love. It was something Alisaie had long known about him, especially after having to endure the misplaced affections of several of his numerous crushes in the Studium. But watching him around Alvaar was borderline painful by proxy at times.

She’d thought it odd, the way he had immediately excused himself from the lavish hall of the Canopy as soon as Alvaar had taken up his harp and the amused snort the Bard made as he left. Yet another inside joke between them it seemed, and again one she hadn’t the faintest what it meant.

Having heard Alvaar’s music many times before she knew it wasn’t that he was terrible. In fact, his cheeky quip of being a ‘Bard of Bards’ sounded fairly accurate as she’d seldom met anyone rivaling the pull and sway of that skilled tenor and accompanying harp. Music hadn’t been any form of her specialty or interest in her studies, but she knew enough to tell when someone was _good_. Hells any random passerby who stopped in could tell that he was exceptional. A fair few had even found a seat and ordered food and drink to enjoy while they waited out yet another of Gridania’s torrential downpours.

Perhaps it was given his long years as a Bard of battle, raising voice and lyre to inspire and weave bolstering magic with his allies, which lent a persuasive pull to his songs. There was a… sincerity, she supposed. Buried deep in every tune ringing off strings and lyrics resonating in his voice. Age old stories and memories wrapped up in each song and if she closed her eyes it was almost as if she could see them herself.

Far off battles for ancient kingdoms. The journey and trials of heroes. The giddiness of a wild flight through open skies. The sorrow and determination of a Queen of ice.

And though there was no trace of Bardsong in his movements, no telltale hum of potent resonance as he wove supportive spells, she could vaguely read a subtle shift of aether. Not enough to invoke anything, but there nonetheless, shifting about him as if charmed by his song.

It explained a great deal she supposed, if his regular singing could tune and prime surrounding aether. Several of his clever tricks and impressive feats in their adventures made more sense if that were the case.

But even if she enjoyed his songs, it wasn’t in her nature to sit idle while the sun was still up. Rising to her feet after an hour she made for the door. A bit of rain didn’t mean she couldn’t explore the indoor market space or perhaps brush up a few skills in one of the practice yards.

It was just as she was clearing the door that a familiar shock of white caught her periphery, surprised to find her twin on the porch still, seated against the corner of the building and sketchbook on his lap. For a moment she pondered leaving him be before discarding the notion. What was the fun of that? Much more interesting to find if he would be too absorbed in his work to notice her approach when she doubled back to try the south exit and creep up over his shoulder that way.

“From memory, dear brother?” she asked abruptly as she studied his half-finished drawing, smirking as Alphinaud startled and almost dropped his charcoal stick. And even if he quickly and quite huffily clapped the book closed, they both knew the damage was done.

“Invasive as ever, dear sister,” he returned flatly.

“You know Alvaar would likely hold still for a portrait if you asked,” she commented lightly, leaning against the corner wall, and crossing her arms over her chest with a smug air.

“It’s just practice,” he murmured. “Nothing I would need him specifically for.”

“Mmm. So why, if I may ask, are you seated out here, in less than ideal conditions, sketching pictures of a man who’s been sitting fairly still and inside with better lighting?” she inquired.

“I like the peace and quiet actually, and ordinarily the privacy, but it seems rather lacking in it today,” he clipped back.

“Funny, I can still hear Alvaar just fine from here. Almost uncannily so…”

At that he merely shook his head and stared out over the lake the Roost overlooked, expression pensive and clearly not in the mood for their usual banter.

“… You should tell him you love him,” Alisaie stated after a moment, glancing down to meet his surprised stare. “Oh please… I’m your twin. I know you’ve been enamored with him longer than I have whether you want to admit it or not.”

A soft noise left his throat, trying for words and clearly meaning to protest before breathing out a heavy sigh and his shoulders slumping in defeat. It was probably one of the most miserable looks she’d seen on him in some time, and the notion of it grated on her nerves far more than she liked.

“And to what end?” he asked quietly. “I’ve no interest in hazarding the bonds we’ve built and driving a wedge between you and I, Alisaie. He seems quite taken with you, so I’ve no wish to jeopardize that for my own self-interest.”

“We’re casual. There’s nothing there for you to jeopardize,” the Red Mage answered simply.

“But you wish there were,” he returned promptly, meeting her gaze with a moment of resigned and knowing maturity.

It was enough to still her reflexive scoff and the lie that wanted to spring from her tongue. Damn it. Even after all these years he still had those moments of being infuriatingly mature. “… I do,” she answered.

“Then I’m not about to hazard that,” he stated firmly.

Sighing deeply, she lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose a moment. “Alphinaud… just because we’re minutes apart does not make me a child needing to be coddled from the world. Don’t sacrifice your own happiness because you believe mine more deserving. I’m a grown woman, I will be able to handle whatever he may choose.”

Silence filled the space between them, only accented by the hiss of rain and distant hum of harp and voice. Brow knitting in irritation as her brother continued to stay mired in his thoughts with no sign of changing his mind, she blew out a slow sigh for patience.

“Who’s to say he picks either of us anyway? …. Who’s to say he won’t pick us both?” she tosses out flippantly.

“Begging your pardon?!” Alphinaud blustered, staring at her in stupefied surprise.

Giving a one-armed shrug she gestured vaguely with her other hand. “I’m just saying that historically, things tend to work out where Alvaar is concerned. You never quite know how they will until they do, but neither will you find out just sitting around being miserable. And I’m not about to thank you for martyring your own feelings on my behalf, Alphinaud. You’re my brother. My twin. The one constant I can count on if no one else. If the world threatening to end several times hasn’t managed to change that, what makes you think the Warrior of Light could either?”

Glancing at him and the sincere surprise and sentiment in his eyes she looked away with a huff, resettling her stance to ease some of the embarrassment she was feeling.

“Do you mean that?” he asked softly.

“Of course I do and you know it. … Besides, we’ve shared everything else most of our lives. If we could manage to handle sharing Angelo growing up, I think we could manage this too,” she reasoned casually.

“A dog is a far cry from a mutual boyfriend, Alisaie,” Alphinaud mumbled, face staining a bit red even just speaking of it.

“Well it would certainly make a more sensible reason for sharing the same house now wouldn’t it?” she teased, flashing him a grin at the inside joke.

Blinking at her in puzzlement for a moment, he finally gave a soft chuckle when it clicked. “You still remember that? Gods that was… over a decade ago now I think,” he mused tapping at his chin with a knuckle in thought.

“Of course. And I’m still just as intent on spiting that old bat now as I was then,” Alisaie confirmed.

She could still remember with perfect clarity the words Alphinaud had thrown back at their first instructor. An overly prim and proper Roegadyn woman who had picked and pried at them during and after lessons for always being together. ‘What will you do when you’re grown and married?’ she’d challenged them one day, haughty toned and dismissive as she’d stared down at them. ‘We’ll all live in the same house together of course!’ he’d shot back angrily, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. Because at the time, and to them, it was.

If they weren’t meant to be together, two sides of a coin, why be born twins at all?

Giving an amused snort at the memory she pushed herself upright fully and stretched. “Maybe we can get another dog too. That would be nice.”

“You’re serious?” Alphinaud asked, tone still wary with disbelief.

“Sure. If you pay for it, I may even let you name it this time.”

“Not about the dog, Alisaie,” he sighed, ruffling his hair in exasperation. “You know what I meant.”

“I meant what I said Alphinaud. If you can be fine with whatever outcome happens, I can be fine with it to. If he picks you, or me, neither of us, or even both of us. It won’t change anything between us,” she answered firmly. “But if you don’t tell him because you’re worried about me, I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

Sitting back against the wall, the Scholar made a slight face at the threat before he looked thoughtful instead of withdrawn. “I’ll… consider it.”

That was progress of some form at least she supposed, and that would have to do for now.

“Very well! But note I do demand payment for my invaluable advice,” she intoned haughtily, drawing herself up grandly before striding away. “Finish up that portrait and leave it in my inn room before sundown and I’ll waive my travel expenses too. If you need me, I’ll be in the markets.”

She didn’t need to look back to know the put-upon expression he’d be making. Just as she knew that half-finished picture of the Bard would be complete and on her bedside table when she retired to it.

* * *

“Hey Ali!” Alvaar greeted her cheerily, face flushed from liquor and a slight slur on his words. He was sitting at a table when she arrived back to the Roost during sunset, leaned heavily against the furniture and various bottles littering around him.

“What did you do?” she asked flatly, hands settling on her hips as she surveyed the scene disapprovingly.

“Nothin! Just… playin and singin and need booze fer my throat,” he chirped, smiling brightly.

“And about drunk off your arse. Come on, let’s get you to bed, it’s getting late.” Stepping closer she moved to help him up but stopped when he pressed a hand to her arm and held fast.

“Nah… ahm good. Dun worry bout me,” he soothed, smiling warmly. “Help will be along soon. Always does when I stop playin.”

Raising a brow at him, she sighed and opted to humor him. While she could certainly haul him to bed with the wiry strength she’d gained with her growth spurt and years of Red Mage training, trying to force Alvaar into anything when he didn’t want to was a recipe for failure. And bruises, as she’d learned once before on accident.

Grabbing up the empty bottles she took them to the counter for disposal, perking up at Alvaar’s next enthusiastic greeting while the proprietress made off with the bottles.

“Hey Alphi!”

Turning to watch her brother finally make his appearance from the stairs, she stayed put at the bar and waited. Noting the way Alvaar brightened in that quiet way of his, nodding and answering whatever questions Alphinaud had for him. The way her twin’s expression softened with a lovesick fondness even as he fretted over the Bard gently while Alvaar leaned into him for support instead of the table.

A few years ago, she’d spotted the easy trust between them. How they could speak without words almost as well as Alphinaud and she could. The confidence in each other and way they both eased when together. It had been an alien feeling, vexing in a way she couldn’t describe. Half worried she was losing her brother, and half convinced the flame of a crush she’d held for Alvaar was already a lost cause.

In some way she still worried, but if the many years fighting side by side against the threats of Source and Shards alike hadn’t diminished any of the bonds between them and only managed to strengthen them instead, she told herself there was little reason to pay it much mind.

“Ah, that’s a sight I haven’t seen in some time,” the Elezen woman behind the counter remarked softly, drawing Alisaie’s attention for a moment. She was an almost plain woman, with cropped ashen brown hair and simple dress, but the air of gentle confidence and friendliness was refreshing in a city that tended to huff at outsiders.

“A few years ago it would be almost weekly they would be here, Alvaar entertaining my patrons until he could barely stand, and young Alphinaud finally swooping in to see him off to bed like clockwork,” she mused aloud as if to no one in particular. “Alvaar used to get so sad when he played late into the night after he went to Ishgard. It was as if the sound of a broken heart was on those strings. It’s so nice that his music has its joy again.”

Blinking at her quietly for a moment, she looked back at the pair with a small nod. “Yea, it is,” she murmured.

“And they’ve grown up so much over the years too. Why, I remember when Alphinaud was still almost elbow height! And he used to boss our poor Bard around all the time and Taelis would get so furious with him he’d stomp out at all hours of the day. Of course, at the time Alvaar barely said a word so it was definitely on his behalf… It took Alvaar so long to come out of his shell from when he first arrived here, a fresh young Adventurer looking to help people. Oh, but then there was that nasty rumor in Ul’dah that had them both taking refuge here years ago… and then a few months after that Miss Y’shtola was recovering in one of our suites. They must have been sitting out here together until almost dawn waiting for her to wake up. They’ve been through here so much I almost can’t remember all the tales I’ve heard accompanying each visit…” she mused aloud, voice cheerful as she spoke of days long past.

There were a few beats of pointed silence that stretched between them, both watching silently as Alphinaud gathered Alvaar’s things for him and pressed the Bards harp into his hands so it could be dismissed dutifully.

“They love each other very much I think,” the proprietress mused aloud. “You can see it plain as day in how they look at each other.”

Feeling her heart sink at the ease of that statement and the truth in it, Alisaie looked away, starting to move before the woman spoke again.

“I wonder what adventures he must share with you, Alisaie, for him to look at you so lovingly as well.”

Turning abruptly to stare at her in surprise, she tried for words a moment and only managed a flustered, “W-how?”

Smiling at her kindly the woman raised a finger up with a gesture of confident intuition. “A Mother knows many things. She can always tell when one of her children is so genuinely in love.” Looking back at the pair fondly she continued. “I have always dearly wished for the happiness of the many adventurers and aspiring heroes who have found their way through these doors. So please, I ask you and Alphinaud both to take care of one of my dearest sons, as I know he will take care of you.”

Studying the gentle and proud demeanor of the woman in puzzlement, she was interrupted from whatever she might have said in reply by a loud cry of, “Ali!”

Looking over she noted her brother’s quiet amusement as Alvaar waved at her energetically in his liquor fueled excitement.

“Come on time for bed! I’m not going without you I told Alphi so!” Alvaar announced loudly, shifting his stance needlessly given the Scholar was mostly holding him up at this point anyway.

“Yes, I’m coming,” she called, casting a glance at the proprietress who still smiled at her fondly. Unable to think of anything to say she offered a nod, quickly making tracks as Alvaar whined her name again. Sweeping up under Alvaar’s other arm, she helped Alphinaud to carry his weight towards the suites. “Come on you, that’s enough yelling. Let’s get you to bed,” she chided.

“Okay!” the Bard chirped overly loud again. “Goodnight Mother Miounne!”

“Goodnight Alvaar! Pleasant dreams!” Miounne called fondly, watching the three make their way off to the stairs.

“Yes, you’ve all made Mother very proud indeed,” she murmured to herself fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my last official prompt entry for the Wondrous Tails of FFXIV event, and for my first writing event it was an absolute blast!
> 
> If you enjoyed these, feel free to take a look at my other works for FFXIV. I also have a long backlog (over 100,000 words last I knew) of various notes and drabbles scattered across my play through of the game last year that I am steadily working to clean up and archive here and on tumblr, so for as long as there's an interest, I'll be working away on it.
> 
> You can also feel free to say hello on my FF14 dedicated tumblr at https://alvaar-aldaviir.tumblr.com/ You know just in case you wanted to know what the Sass Bard looks like.
> 
> For everyone that has read this, or left a comment or a kudo, thank you so much! I've finally taken to posting my writing in the hopes my work might brighten someone else's day just a little. Hang in there people, we're making it through this!


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